trying to rid part I

Mais um pêssego, e outro, nacional tradicional e o teor coisal da minha cama eu não aguento mais. Não satisfez, eu tentei expurgar, exorcisar, voltar ao centro do que... voltar ao centro de quem?

And no I don´t oh no I don´t and no I can´t change the subject.

He´s been gone for eight years, I told her. Eight whole fucking years and the short story I wrote repeats itself as a perverted myth.
We sat some five feet from the recent grave, me and The Boy With the Callous Mind. The Boy with the Callous Mind, and the Girl of the Callous Heart. We sat there some five minutes in silence, as our own version of the funeral developed inside our eyes. Our own version of his song, and our own silent goodbye. We imagined teenly we were witnessing the sad ending of a disease we couldn´t imagine naming. The two of us, we were children, and the beggining seemed like an ending.
Of all the people to sit with that day, I sat with him. Imature for death as we were for sex, love, and all separations to come, we tortured our minds with the guilt of not having saved our loved one. And looking around at him, sitting with me, simply passed me by. We never truly understood life as it sat there, we could only grief death, as it laid.

I do not blame myself, I blame both of us. For the lack of sensibility to what really there was: life, and the shortness of breath you would one day experience. As if his testament to you: hold on to my life, as I haven´t, hold on to the wind, hold on to their hearts till you queeze their blood, and the air off their lungs. And so you did.
And we loved, though we did not know how. Me and the Boy of The Callous Mind. We loved the size of friendship and our childish arguments, we loved rainy days, and rainy cinnamon cakes. We loved the same man, and as kids we roamed in the dead of dangerous indoor nights. I took things from the Boy, he took things from me. As a pair of brother dogs, we pleeded the milk to ourselves, and we loved each other in tears. I made so many mistakes, and I needed you to understand. You made so many mistakes, and I needed you to keep away.

I´m sorry. And I still need you to be sorry.

One day, after one of the Boy´s Callous Mind-spats with my Heart, I exploded in seven million tears, and told him to leave and never come back. I despised his laughter as I did his jealousy, I felt tired and small under his enormous lack of need for niceness. For consideration. I ate stale popcorn as I watched that awfull starwars movie, and cried with the princess as she said it: "Ani, you´re breaking my heart." I imagined I watched my devilish friend becoming a monster, and then I realised my exagerated hatred and desperation. And then I didn´t realise my exageration was nothing short of true. I was scared of your ability to cause pain, as I am now. I am scared of your ability to feel pain. I am now. I kept away from your hatred and love for a blesses period of rational self-care... And I almost hate myself for it.

Whatever you did during that time, I have no record, I have no idea. I hurt you deeply, as you hurt me. I shot it all with a ridiculous bebegun, and the wounds are almost laughable. But I was right. As I was wrong.
You knew I´d come back, I always did.

Whatever he left for you, you seem to have left for me. Although you have not gone. The Boy with the Callous Mind, of a thousand faces, smiles at the moon as if he knows her. And yes, although you have gone, you have.

The perfection of that bleeding vein, the perfection, it scares me out of my mind. It scares me, worst, out of my Heart. Yes, what is this? Yes, I feel it. Whatever it is you felt, I cannot name, and I feel it. Oh dear god I plead in your inexistance, I feel the Boy´s scar, it hurts between my eyes, and I cannot hold your life in my hands. But that is a line, and it is my life, and it is all our lives, and it is also the body that´s been dead for 8 years.
Lacks air. Lacks hair. Lacks light. Exceeds, expells, extracts, and it contracts and spins down and out again. I cannot hold it, and I ask you to sit.
I had asked you to sit, hadn´t I? Then I pleeded. I kneed, and I pleaded, and prayed that you would sit. For I was tired, for I still am, for you left me with the giant lock and I am searching, and I see the door to your apartment, and I see the dusty light outside, and I feel what you felt: and I start separating them, one by one... like kettle. I start seeing the disease in them, and they scare me, and they threaten me, and they will they will all betray me. So I start separating them as kettle. I´m scared of you, and I am scared of me. As I was scared of him.

With them, there is the image of you, almost saintlike in white, and yet monster-like with eyes of Anakin turning red. I list the bad in the good, I search for the wolves amongst the sheep. And I had never been one to kill. Here I am pointing the gun at passer-bys, here I am holding tight to my pockets. Why am I you? I cry so terribly hard I cannot hear my heart anymore. I tell you to breathe. I had told you to breathe, hadn´t I?

breathe
ignore all, just breathe.
And I can´t.
What if it was me? - I scream at your face as if you´re guilty.
What if it were me behind the wind and over the window? would you have had me in your arms?! Would you have held me like I held his trembling wet body, would you!? Would you have had the guts to sit by my body, would you have held my hands and pleaded me to sit?! Would you have told me to fucking breathe?!

It is absolutely absurd to want any of this from you. You wouldn´t and you couldn´t have. And I am a spoiled brat with the notion of dual love. I am a spoiled brat and I need caring for. I am a spoiled brat and I wanted myself when I had given myself to all of you. When we were kids, and you all but me had me on my knees for your fucking saity. For your fucking love. For his fucking life. And I needed it to be me, in my own arms. I´m so sorry I left you. I´m so sorry I still consider leaving you.

"And I´m crying for things that I tell others to do without crying"

I´m scared of trust, and of my own open arms. Were his arms open as he fell? I´ve always wanted to know. I´ve always kept a secret hope that his arms were open as he fell. My unconditional love has developed into a little baby white boy, and he laughs at all my lack of will, as I try to feed it and help it survive. I am weaker, and less myself than I´ve been in years. Yet. Yet. I wonder. Would it could it possibly be the best time to find out? Maybe I don´t want to know. The door you opened that night scares the fuck out of all my organs, and I hope for a greater decision. Things are so fickle and they pass. You are as strong as the roots of your soul. I am a tree, and I want to be a tree. I want to love all of them, as I always have, and I want no more wounds to question light and water. I don´t want to wonder, I want to, as a child, walk straight into the wall, and cry my eyes out when it hurts. But your learn that walls can kill. And yes, I am scared.